


Snow

by madzmickleson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feel-good, Long-Suffering John, M/M, Sherlock is a git, Snow, WAFFY, bam! romance, dangerous amounts of fluff, surprise ecchi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 01:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16863451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madzmickleson/pseuds/madzmickleson
Summary: It's the first snow of the year and John is damn excited. But duty calls and he and Sherlock are called in on a case. Will John get his dream of mad fun in the snow? Will Sherlock turn out to have a heart? Find out!





	Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissMolecule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMolecule/gifts).



“Good morning!” John exclaimed, strolling into the living room.

Sherlock did not answer, did not look move even. He just sat at the kitchen table, silently staring at his newspaper. John sighed inwardly and tried again.

“How are you?”

Again, Sherlock said nothing, only rattled his paper, as if to emphasize the fact that he did not intend to rise to his flatmate’s early good humor. John crossed to the tiny kitchenette and pulled down a mug from the cupboard.

“It’s snowing,” he said, pouring himself some tea.

No reply.

“First snow of the year, you know.”

Sherlock threw down his paper in frustration. “John,” he began, taking care to sound bored. “I possess not one, but five objects that can show me the weather now, and three that can tell me what the weather will be.” He nodded to the window, and then his phone atop the breakfast table. “Why you felt the need to announce this fact is completely beyond me.”

“Aren’t you excited?”

“Why would I be excited? It’s frozen rain! Ice crystals in the clouds get stuck together and—ooh! Ooh!” Sherlock exclaimed as his phone buzzed next to him. He peered down at the screen. “It’s Lestrade. They found the parrot.”

“But . . . but . . .” John trailed off, his voice taking on a plaintive, childlike quality. “It’s snowing . . .”

“Yes, it’s snowing. And the criminal classes are working, which means you and I must work. Now get your coat.”

“But I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Here,” said Sherlock, and shoved his half-eaten piece of toast at the smaller man. “This should do.”

They trooped downstairs, Sherlock in the lead, John stomping slightly every other step. He was disappointed at missing the snow, but didn’t dare protest.

“Hello, boys!” Mrs. Hudson trilled. “It’s snowing!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Off to work, are you?”

“Yes. Duty calls.”

“Yes, well.” Mrs. Hudson turned to John and produced a thick woolen scarf. “A present. For the first snow of the year.” She fixed it about his neck. “Now you two bundle up warm, alright? No runny noses. The pair of you are perfect babies when you’re sick.”

John, at least, managed to look affronted at this (true) slight, even while reveling in the warmth of his new scarf. “That was one time,” he said, the tips of his ears going pink. “I had strep throat.”

“You had a cold, John Watson.” She clucked her tongue. “Now, off you get. I’ve got shopping to do.”

Outside, they caught a cab to Scotland Yard. John stared forlornly out the window at the fresh-driven snow and sighed. _Maybe it’ll keep._

* * *

They had no sooner arrived at Scotland Yard when Sherlock received another text.

“What is it?” John asked.

“‘The parrot is not in its cage,’” Sherlock read aloud. “They lost it? How could they lose it? It’s a tropical bird. It couldn’t have been very keen on flying about in this weather.”

Another text. “‘It’s outside. We can’t catch it.’ Who let it out in the first place? It’s not a dog, it doesn’t need walking or anything.” Sherlock scowled and put his phone away. He yanked open the doors and stormed inside.

“We’ll have to catch it,” he said to John.

“Uh,” John stammered, struggling to keep up with Sherlock’s long-legged gait. “Why is this bird so important?”

Sherlock fixed him with a keen stare, icy eyes glinting. “It’s our witness.”

The next few hours were spent chasing the frightened parrot up and down Parliament Street, trying to cajole it back into its cage. Its wings had been clipped; it couldn’t go very far or very high, but it was fast, the bugger, and apparently not too keen on going back into its prison. The bird’s owner, now lying dead in the morgue, had apparently delighted in cursing in front of the bloody thing: swear words seemed be all it knew. If the situation hadn’t been so impossible, John might have actually found it funny.

“Fuckin’ bastard,” the parrot screeched after a particularly close grab. “Sod off, twat! Sod off!”

“Jesus,” John muttered, slipping on the slush. The snow had long since stopped, but somehow, that had only made their task harder. He struggled to his feet, puffing in the frigid air. “Where’s it gone?” He glanced about wildly, finally spotting it atop a bare tree at the end of the block, glowering down at him with beetle-black eyes.

John knuckled the sweat from his eyes and glared at Sherlock. The taller man had stopped sometime in the last hour, instead relegating himself to following listlessly whenever John and the parrot strayed too far outside his range. He now leaned against a lamp post, engrossed in his phone.

“Do hurry, John,” Sherlock called. “We haven’t got all day.”

John gritted his teeth. “You could help, you know.”

“You’ve almost got it.”

“You’re taller than me,” John shot back, fixing his gloves. “And he’s all the way at the top.”

“I don’t climb trees.” Sherlock replied, calmly. “So you’ll have to do it. Don’t stress it too much. Remember, this parrot is a key witness in our investigation.”

* * *

 At five past three, with the frazzled parrot in its cage, Sherlock finally called it quits. The bird hadn’t been as forthcoming as Sherlock had hoped, and the taller man suspected trauma as the source of its reticence, rather than the more obvious fact that it was a sodding bird.

“There’s nothing more for us to do today,” he said. “Come on, John. We’re leaving.”

They stood on the pavement in front of Scotland Yard. “Ooh.” John pulled his new scarf tighter and tugged on his gloves. “It’s getting colder. And not a cab in sight. Well, that’s just lovely.”

“John, can’t we just have one day where you don’t grouse?”

“Grouse?” John stared up at his friend, wild-eyed and disbelieving. “Grouse? You’ve got some nerve. I’ve just spent the better part of a day chasing after a bird, which almost shat on me. I’m cold, hungry and tired. My feet hurt and there are no cabs, so excuse me if I grouse a bit.” John burrowed down into his coat, a scowl twisting his face.

Sherlock scanned the road. “There, he said, and pointed to a vendor cart gleaming in the late afternoon sun. He sprinted off, leaving John staring. Five minutes later, he came back with a steaming sackful of . . . chestnuts?

“Uh,” John grimaced at the growling of his stomach. “Can’t we get a curry or something? I need something more substantial.”

Calmly, Sherlock about-faced and began to walk. “There are five Indian restaurants in the area. All of them are terrible. But there’s a wonderful little Indonesian spot close by.” He looked back to see John still rooted to the spot. “But if you’d rather have the chestnuts . . .”

“No, no. I’m coming,” John said, and shoved the chestnuts in his pocket.

“Close by” was somewhat of a misnomer. They walked for perhaps twenty minutes before coming to a derelict stretch of road John hadn’t ever seen before. The shops, mostly hair salons and off-licenses, were dirty, rundown, their windows barred over and forlorn. Usually, John loved London, but this place was one of the shabbiest he had ever been to, and he resisted the temptation to check his wallet.

Near a bend in the road, they came to a small red shopfront. The sign above the door read “Jalan.”

“This is it, said Sherlock, and pushed his way in.

Jalan was small and warm, and nearly deserted. The walls were a dingy cream, with a few batiks mounted up to attest to the providence of the proprietor. On the wall behind the reception were several black-and-white photos of well-dressed, unsmiling people. A young girl, maybe fourteen, rushed out to greet them.

“Good afternoon, sirs,” she chirped, menus already in hand. “Please sit wherever you like.” She was pleasant, but a little too eager to be polite. Some family relation, John wagered. A daughter, or a niece.

Ignoring her, Sherlock stalked to a table in the front, right before the only window in the place. John hesitated; it would be cold sitting so close to the doors, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t change his mind.

“It is cold out there, sirs. Would you like some bandrek?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied and unknotted his scarf. “Two, please.” She nodded and disappeared into the back.

“What’s a bandrek?” Asked John, prying open a menu. He envisioned some type of savory pastry—something warm and filling.

“You’ll see,” said Sherlock. “Try the beef rendang,” he counseled, waving off the menu. “You’ll enjoy it.”

He was right. John had lived in seven countries on different three continents; rendang was one of the most amazing dishes he had ever tasted. It was like Indian curry and Thai curry had got off together and had a love child. He could taste lime and ginger, coconut milk, the fat of the meat, and underneath it all, the smooth, earthy flavor of turmeric. It was, to put it plain, heaven.

Sherlock, as usual, did not order anything. The taller man simply stared and sipped his bandrek, a hot, sweet drink that warmed John to his toes and other, less mentionable areas. It must have done something for Sherlock, too: his ears had reddened, and John could see the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Sherlock had even broken his ban on food during a case, allowing the smaller man to coax a couple of spoonfuls of the spicy rendang down his throat.

Too soon, the meal was over. John slumped back and patted his stomach, utterly sated. “That was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Sherlock looked up from his phone and smirked. “Better than Anthony’s risotto?”

John laughed. “No comparison. Sorry, Anthony.”

Sherlock gave a real smile at that, glanced once more at his phone, and gathered his coat. “Shall we go, then?”

They stumbled out into the frigid air. “God,” John gasped. “It’s even deader than before. No cabs anywhere. We’ll have to take the tube home.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said and started walking. “This is London. You can’t swing a dead body around without hitting at least three cabs. We’ll find something.”

John rolled his eyes, scanned the empty streets. Even the chips stand was deserted. John wasn’t looking forward to walking. Sighing, he tugged on his gloves and pulled up the hood of his parka.

“Look. Over there,” Sherlock said suddenly, and John raised his head. A few meters away was a sight he hadn’t seen in years: a black, open air carriage, hitched to a single sullen horse.

“You’re joking,” John exclaimed, utterly gobsmacked as Sherlock walked over and began to talk to the driver. “Sherlock, it’s freezing out!”

“The nearest station is ten minutes away. Or would you prefer to walk?”

Grumbling, John slunk towards the carriage, giving the horse a wide berth as Sherlock negotiated the hire. It wasn’t completely open air—more like a landaulette, actually, with a deep, black hood at the back and a pair of screened-in windows. With the hood up, John could see that only the front of the carriage lay exposed to the elements; still, though, it would be damn cold. Gingerly, he clambered up, and sighed with relief at the sight of the thick, woolen blanket that lay on the seat. Perhaps he wouldn’t freeze, after all. He settled himself, draping the blanket across his knees. It was rough, and smelled slightly of sweat, but it was warm, and for that John was glad. A minute later, Sherlock hopped up (Easily, John thought, trying not to stare at the man’s long, long legs) and squeezed himself in next to John.

It was a very tight fit. John couldn’t help noticing the warm press of Sherlock’s long thigh against his own. He shifted a little, trying to give Sherlock more room, but soon realized how impossible that was. He tried to lean away, to put space between the two. But that was no use, either: the sturdy leather of the carriage hood provided little give. Uncomfortably, he straightened up, and tried to breathe as little as possible.

“All settled, then?” The driver called. Sherlock grunted in assent and they set off.

John had never ridden in a carriage before. He had never ridden on a horse, either. He was therefore surprised—and alarmed—at the bounce-bouncing of the cab itself, unnerved at the way it unseated him and threw him against Sherlock. Embarrassed at the feel of his friend’s chest, warm and solid, heaving under the thick tweed.

 _Everything_ was bouncing: his hair, his hands. His privates. John’s cheeks burned as he felt the warmth he had felt earlier, that of the bandrek, begin to spread, turning into a throbbing tingle that pulsed with every clop of hooves, every revolution of the wheels. Shyly, he stole a glance at Sherlock. The taller man’s face was blank, inscrutable. He could have been a statue. His measured breathing told John all: Sherlock Holmes was not affected by the tightness of the cab, the roughness of the ride. Or if he was, it was most definitely not in the same way that John was.

 _Get it together_ , John urged, and forced himself to concentrate instead on his buttocks rebounding off the padded wooden seat. He was starting to understand the meaning of the phrase “saddle sore.” He couldn’t figure how, in this weather, there had been a carriage— _a carriage_ —but not a taxi in sight.

He was startled out of his reverie at a sudden wetness on his cheek. _What the hell?_ He looked up, and gasped.

It was snowing. He peered around the black hood, awestruck, and gaped as white flakes swirled down and around the carriage. He looked down, and was disappointed to see the snow turning to slush under the wheels. But still, it was snowing.

Snow and a horse-drawn carriage. Quite romantic, actually. The sort of thing he might do with a woman. He snorted. There was absolutely no way Sherlock would ever find any of this the least bit romanti—

He suddenly remembered something, an incident about a month ago. He and Sherlock had been in to Tam's, a very nice little Cantonese restaurant up the lane from their flat, getting a takeaway. The waiter had just brought up their order. John was busy paying when Sherlock had spied a couple near the front of the room.

_They aren’t hard to miss. The table is decked out with flowers and candles. A bottle of wine chills in a standing ice bucket. The pair are quite young, fair, blushing and beaming away at each other. John tries not to stare at them._

_Sherlock snorts at their display. "Ugh. Romance."_

_John giggles. "Sherlock, they'll hear you."_

_“It's just so . . . frivolous." His lip curls in obvious distaste. "Pointless."_

_"Sherlock." John picks up the food bags from the counter and heads toward the door. "A little romance is good for a relationship."_

_"What? Flowers? Chocolates?" He sniffs. "One withers, the other doesn't get eaten. Is that what you did with your girlfriends? No wonder they left you."_

_John laughs at that. "Romance isn't the same for everyone, you know. People like different things. It's about being thoughtful.”_ _They stop at the red light at the corner. "Basically, you want to find out what the other person likes and give them that. That's romance."_

A chill blast of wind forced John back to the present. He thought over the day: their mad dash for a foul-mouthed parrot; the lovely food; and now this carriage ride through the snow.

It was this last part that got him. Years ago, he had decided that Sherlock Holmes was incapable of anything approaching romance (not to mention tact, consideration, and the full range of human emotion). And if he hadn’t currently been on this _romantic fucking snowdream fantasy_ , something any fourteen-year-old girl would have pissed herself over, he would have dismissed all his wild notions with considerable prejudice.

And there was also the fact that something like this would have taken immense planning to pull off; and Sherlock, the prime suspect, was the most thoughtless person John had ever met.

But then . . .

 _“John, I possess not one, but five objects that can show me the weather_ now _, and three that can tell me what the weather_ will be _.”_

Sherlock had said those words. Was he just being a jerk, or had that been a hint?

John felt himself go hot. He turned his face towards the open space in the side of the carriage, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't see just how much distress he was in. His body was on fire: he could feel every bounce, every shudder, every breath that Sherlock took. Sherlock shifted a bit, and pressed his shoulder to John's, his hand coming up to rest on the top of his thigh.

Right next to John's thigh.

He held his breath as Sherlock flexed his long, naked fingers, and slipped both hands beneath the blanket. There was movement against John’s shoulder, and a tugging at the blanket. An errant, icy prod at his thigh caught him by surprise, and the pulse in his groin quickened.

John took a deep breath, stilled himself against his growing arousal. _He just bumped me, that’s all_ , he chided. He felt Sherlock’s hand retreat, and he relaxed.

But a strange sensation under the blanket caught him again: that of a coolness, hovering around the border of his body beneath the cover. Then came another touch, still cold, but warming slowly, small and feather-light.

Another jostle, and the small point of contact lengthened, grew bolder, smoothing into the fabric of his jeans, caressing the swell of muscle tensed against his own arousal.

They were touching. Sherlock was touching him, and John could barely breathe.

He faced forward, not daring to look down for fear of startling the man next to him. Sherlock's touch was timid, shy, as if he expected at any moment to be rebuffed. John was scared, too, but also exhilarated, the thrum of desire issuing from his groin growing more insistent, more intense. He could feel, with the edges of his consciousness, a prickling warmth spreading across his neck.

All of a sudden, the hand was gone, the caress evaporating into another hard jostle. John's chest constricted, aching at the loss of sensation. But he did not dare say anything, or move his hand to touch Sherlock in return. What if it had been a mistake?

A final shudder, and the carriage came to a stop.

"Baker Street, gents. Everyone out."

John lurched out of the carriage. His feet tangled in the blanket, pitching him forward and nearly into the driver. But he recovered, and with cheeks ablaze, wadded the folds of the blanket and shoved it behind him. He stumbled out onto the pavement and blanched at the raw chill of the air.

John dragged in a deep breath, fighting to steady the tremors of his body. The snow drifted into his hair, clung to his cheeks, melted against his skin. He turned away, panting, as Sherlock paid the fare.

A nicker, a whinny, and then the carriage finally clopped off. John looked around. They were still a block away from the flat. He felt rather than heard Sherlock behind him, his feet scuffing and twisting on the pavement. He was obviously nervous, which somewhat calmed John’s own nerves.

"John."

John shivered at the sound of Sherlock's voice: husky, raw. He turned to him, closed the gap between them. Felt the same ache, the same crush of desire as he always did. Sherlock with his weird face and mad hair and perfect, perfect lips.

John floated forward, dreamlike. He had wanted this for so long, but now it had happened, it almost didn't feel real.

"John, I—”

“Shut up,” John said, and pulled Sherlock down into a long, bruising kiss.

Sherlock kissed the way John had always known he would: timidly, clumsily. But his lips were pliant as they moved sweetly against John’s own. Sherlock’s mouth was warm, and John could taste the spice of the bandrek, the earthy brown flavor of the rendang, and behind this, the bitterness of cigarette tobacco.

Shyly, Sherlock’s tongue flicked against the edges of John’s lips. John gave a startled groan of surprise and blushed as he felt himself go instantly, embarrassingly erect. He dragged Sherlock closer to him, bringing his hands up to cup his cheeks, his jaw, to worm under the bunch of his ever-present scarf and claw at the back of his long neck. John couldn’t feel much of Sherlock beneath the coat, and ached inside, his left hand scrabbling at the buttons, intending to yank, to strip, to put flesh on flesh, skin to skin.

A snowflake drifted into his ear, and suddenly, John remembered where they were: on a public road. Darkened and fairly deserted, but still.

Wistfully, he broke the kiss, pulled his hand from the warm skin of Sherlock’s throat and stepped back. His heart lurched a little at the sight of Sherlock’s mussed clothing and red, kiss-swollen lips, but John consoled himself with the knowledge that it was not over. There would be time yet.

John panted in the freezing air and willed away his erection. More for practical purposes than anything: his coat was barely long enough, and not nearly bulky enough, to cover it. He resisted the temptation to adjust himself; touching himself in any way would only make things worse. Or better, depending on how one looked at it.

Sherlock was the first to break the silence.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “That was—”

“Lovely,” John finished, and smiled. “Amazing. Let’s go home now.” He turned and began to walk to the flat.

They shuffled along in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock unconsciously matching his long stride to John’s.

“Good he didn’t drop us at the door,” John said finally, hands shoved in his pockets.

“That was on purpose. Mr. Chatterjee is a frightful gossip.”

John chuckled. It was true: the man served up more than just sandwiches at his tiny shop. It was good that Sherlock had thought of it beforehand.

“You planned at this, didn’t you?” John asked, stealing a glance at his companion.

“Not the murder, obviously.”

“But the rest?”

Sherlock shrugged, bashful.

“We’ve quite a bit to talk about when we get home.”

Sherlock ducked his head, his cheeks reddening. “Do we have to?”

John smiled and shook his head. “Not right now.”

It could wait. They had time.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story is part of an art trade with my homegirl, MissMolecule. She gave me one prompt: that Sherlock and John should kiss in the snow; bonus points if it was their first kiss.


End file.
